They Thirst (49 page)

Jane wheeled up behind her. "What now, kiddo?"

"I don't know." Solange looked at the old woman over her shoulder. "There are more of them. Many more. I think that soon they'll be all over this city."

"Does he think the cops are going to believe him?" she asked. "Do you really think anybody's going to believe any of us?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I wouldn't have believed it myself if I hadn't seen two of them. I may be a little on the senile side, but I sure as hell ain't crazy. Not yet, at least. But I will be if I stick around here." She turned the chair and started to wheel toward the elevator.

"Where are you going?" Solange asked her.

"To pack. Next stop, LAX. Like I say, I may be old, but I'm not crazy. Not by a long shot." She reached the elevator and closed the cage behind her.

"Good luck," Solange called after her, but the elevator had already started to rise. Solange left the house and began to walk down the driveway to Wes and the two policemen. A sudden cold breeze came at her, hitting her diagonally and rolling over like a great invisible wave. Something sharp speckled her cheek. She brushed it away with her fingers, then looked down at the bits of grit clinging to her skin.

Sand.

She walked down to where they were standing, the two officers staring incredulously at Wes. A great feeling of dread had suddenly leeched onto her back and seemed to be weighing her down with every step. The sun was coming up out of a red slash across the sky, but the sky itself seemed wicked—a patchwork of clouds that looked as thick as slate-gray bricks veined with purple. They were scudding fast, being driven westward over the sea. As Solange watched, she saw a cloud split apart by a crosscurrent of winds; its interior glowed red with reflected sunlight, like hot coals stirred by a demonic breath. When she reached Wes, she grasped his hand tightly, afraid to let go.

The telephone was ringing. Gayle Clarke, her eyes shadowed by sleeplessness, came out of her kitchen with a cup of Morning Thunder tea and stared down at the little black bastard on the telephone table. She was wearing a dirty pair of jeans—which she'd slept in—and a ragged workshirt she'd had since she was a high school sophomore. Her face was swollen, her entire body sluggish from the dangerous mixture of Valiums, liquor, tea, and coffee that she'd been putting away since that night at the Sandalwood Apartments. She couldn't seem to sleep, and then when she finally did, she couldn't wake up. She'd been walking around in a daze since she'd left the police station—kicked out rather, by a very irate lieutenant— and had even started taking 'ludes again. Now she kept all her curtains and blinds drawn, the door securely bolted with a chair next to it, ready to be used as a barricade.
This is what cracking up feels like,
she told herself repeatedly, but she didn't care. If Jack's hideous face hadn't sent her over the edge immediately, the recurrent nightmares of him chasing her across the apartment courtyard eventually would. She'd lost track of time. The kitchen clock said it was ten-twenty-five, but with the windows shrouded she had no idea whether it was night or day. The ringing telephone told her it was morning, and it would be Trace on the other end, wanting to know where she was for the second day in a row and why she wasn't working on the fucking Gravedigger story.

"Shut up," she said to the phone. "Just shut up and leave me alone."
Is this what cracking up feels like?
she wondered.
Not giving a shit about anything?

The phone kept shrilling, like the nagging voices of her parents—Gayle, why don't you dress better? Gayle, why aren't you making more money? Gayle, you should be thinking about marriage. Gayle, Gayle, Gayle. . . .

"SHUT UP!" she said and lifted the receiver to slam it down again.
There. That fixes you, you bastard!
She walked over to a window, pulled aside the curtains and looked out. The sunlight was weak, hidden behind a strange, violet pallor, but strong enough to sting her eyes. She dropped the curtains back and decided she was going to have to go outside today; she'd be okay in the daytime, the things couldn't move around when it was light. Or could they?
A 'lude,
she told herself.
That's what I need.

She was heading for the medicine cabinet when the phone started ringing again. "DAMN IT!" she shouted, looking for something to throw at the thing.
Okay,
she thought.
Calm down. Calm down.
She was afraid of that phone. Last night—
or was it last night?
she couldn't remember exactly when—she'd picked up that receiver, said "Hello?" and had been treated to a long silence that was finally broken by a voice speaking a single word,
"Gayle?"
She'd slammed it down and screamed because it had sounded too much like Jack's voice, calling to find out if she was home so he could come pay her a nice, friendly visit, fangs and all.

Calm down.

If it was Trace, she knew he'd keep calling until she answered. She'd tell him she was sick, that she couldn't leave her apartment. She picked it up and said in a trembling voice, "Yes?"

There were a few seconds of silence. Gayle could hear her heart pounding. Then a familiar voice said, "Miss Clarke? I'd like to see you . . ."

"Who is this?"

"Andy Palatazin. Captain Palatazin, from Parker Center."

"What is it? What do you want?"
Calm down. You sound fucking frantic.

He paused and then went on, "I need your help. It
's
very important that I see you as soon as possible."

"My help? Why? How did you find me?"

"I called the
Tattler.
A man there gave me your number. I need your help because . . . I'd rather not talk about this over the phone."

"I'd rather you did."

He sighed heavily. "Yes. All right. I'd like to tell you a story, and I'm hoping you'll believe it enough to write about it in your newspaper . . ."

"Why? I thought you called the
Tattler
a rag." She sipped her tea and waited for him to speak again.

"I can tell you who the Gravedigger is, Miss Clarke,"

Palatazin said. "I can tell you why those graves are being torn up. I can tell you all that and much, much more."

"Yeah? Well, I'm retired. I'm thinking about driving up to San Francisco for, a while . . ."

"LISTEN TO ME!" he said so furiously Gayle jumped. She was tempted to hang up on him, but there was a pleading note in his voice that held her attention. "Yours is the only paper in this city that would even consider printing the story I'm going to tell you! And by printing it, you could save lives, Miss Clarke. Possibly millions of lives! I thought you told me you were a journalist. You said you were a good one, and I believed you. Was I wrong?"

"Maybe you were."

"Perhaps. But were
you?"

She gripped the receiver. Her knuckles were white. She wanted to tell him to go to hell; she wanted to tell him to go over to the Sandalwood Apartments and help the other stumble-bum cops look for about twenty-five tenants who'd vanished overnight. Instead, she heard herself ask, "What kind of story is it?"

"One that you'll have to have courage to write. I think you have it, Miss Clarke. That's why I called you."

"Cut the bullshit," she said irritably. "Where are you? Parker Center?"

"No, I'm . . . at home." He gave her the address. "When can you be here?"

"I don't know. I. . . whenever I get there, I guess."

"All right. That'll have to do. I'll be here all afternoon."

"Good-bye." As she was hanging up, she heard him say "Thank you." And his voice was so full of relief and real gratitude that she was momentarily stunned. The line went dead, and she slowly put the receiver down.

She drank the rest of her tea and went into the bathroom. Her face in the mirror looked awful. She opened the medicine cabinet and took out a small yellow bottle. There were three Quaaludes rattling around at the bottom. She shook one out into her hand and lifted it to her mouth; her hand was shaking, and she had to grasp her wrist to hold it steady.
Is this what cracking up feels like? Who said that?
She looked down at the pill.
No,
she told herself.
If I'm going to get back to work, I've got to stay straight.
She looked at the pill longingly for a while, then dropped it back into the bottle.

She turned on the cold water tap in the shower, undressed, stepped in before she could reconsider, and stuck her head beneath the torrent.

At twelve noon Bob Lampley stood next to the Hell's Hole Hilton and watched the sky. On top of the Hilton, enclosed by a chain-link fence, a great radar cup turned smoothly on its tower. In the space of a half-minute, a metal wind-direction indicator twirled, first due west, then west-northwest, due north, back to northwest, then slowly returned to due west where it hung steady. The winds swirled around Lampley as hot as the breath of a blast furnace. Every so often he felt the sting of sand on his face or hands, and his scalp itched. Thermals were coming up from the Mojave Desert, the strongest winds bringing sand with them.
That's odd as hell,
Lampley thought.
That's one for the record books, I guess.

The Hell's Hole Hilton was a wood-framed weather station 5,012 feet up on Old Baldy about twenty-five miles from the heart of L.A. and sixty miles from what Lampley considered the fiercest place God ever created —the hot, sand-choked throat of the Devil's Playground at the center of the Mojave Desert. He'd tried to hike across that monstrous place a few years ago with some friends who were as crazy as he was. They'd wound up scorched to the bone, babbling with sunfever, packed into a Jeep racing toward a case of cold Coors in Ludlow.

But the weird thing about this new weather picture was that the sand was being blown such a long way. The weather station at Twenty-nine Palms had reported some strong winds this morning centered between the Cady and Providence Mountain ranges in the Playground, but any loose sand should've been caught miles back by the peaks that stood between the San Bernardino National Forest and the desert. If the winds were strong enough and high enough to carry the sand over those mountains, then by all the rules of weather forecasting they should lose strength dramatically the further they got from the center of strongest activity and dump the sand at the lip of the forest. That wasn't happening, and this new change in the rules was beginning to bother him. The hot winds were melting snowcaps for miles in all directions, the wind-direction indicator seemed to point due west most of the time when it wasn't spinning around crazily to show the progress of a sudden corkscrew, and Lampley was getting sand in his face 5,000 feet up.

Won't do,
he thought.
Nope. Won't do at all.

Directly overhead the sun shone weakly through chinks in cirrus clouds as thick and gray as an iguana's hide. Those clouds were racing, tumbling over each other in what seemed to Lampley like frantic haste away from the storm center. And there it was—he'd finally allowed the thought that had been lurking at the back of his brain to come forward—a hideous pupil allowed to sit in the front row. Storm center.
What storm?
he asked himself.
Some high desert winds in the Playground sure as hell don't constitute a storm, Lampley. You're thinking in terms of tornado or a dust-devil, and neither of those can be right. There's a pretty slim chance of a tornado, and if this is a dust-devil forming, it's got to be the biggest bastard of a dust-devil that ever spun out of a whirlwind.

Okay,
he thought.
How about a plain old sandstorm?
They happen all the time, kicked out of the Mojave Desert by two or more pressure ridges that meet and don't like each other, stomping around trying to get out of one another's way. The Mojave, like all the world's deserts, crept. It already covered roughly 25,000 square miles of southern California and still wanted more. Every few years it lapped up to the back doors of some nearby town, as slowly and innocently as a golden dog who wouldn't bite you, not for anything in the world. But then when the forty-five- and fifty-mile-an-hour winds came screaming out of that furnace—always quite unexpectedly —the golden dog turned into a ravenous beast who slithered over sandbag barricades and brick walls to leave its shifting spoor.

Can't be a sandstorm,
Lampley told himself.
There's supposed to be a high pressure ridge sitting astride California and six other states in a slow eastward sweep, supposed to be clear skies with moderate westerly winds until Monday.
And no storm that Lampley had ever heard of
or
read about in his six years with the National Weather Service had ever shot tendrils of sand so high. It was as if the Mojave had decided it was better to leap than to creep.

Lampley watched the sky for a moment more and then walked up a slight grade to the Hilton. The place was weather-beaten outside and looked as old as the surrounding mountains, but inside it was quite comfortable with a woven, red and brown Indian rug on the floor, a couple of castoff but good chairs around a wood-burning heater, which was not needed now since the temperature up here had risen to the low sixties. There was a desk and a bookcase with dog-eared paperbacks set before a window that afforded a westerly view of the Mount Baldy winter sports area and Silverwood Lake. On the other side of the window was a battery of electronic equipment— wind-speed indicators, pressure gauges, and a radar screen that now showed the soupy, green clumps of the cloud masses moving overhead. A black telephone sat on the desk next to a photograph of Lampley's wife, Bonnie, and their two-year-old son, Chad. On the wall over a teletype machine, there was a red phone hooked up directly to National Weather in L.A.